


The Dreaming Warrior

by Carbisari



Category: Original Work, Star Trek
Genre: Gen, Isolation, Klingon, Monsters, Psionics, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbisari/pseuds/Carbisari
Summary: Three versions of the same place. Three of the same being. The Dreamer wakes. The Dreamer was never meant to do so.Currently an experimental story, huge WIP sticker on the front!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Version 1: The Long Road Home

"No creature can tell you what I was, but in the long dream I feel the cool edge of blade against flesh; of machinery soldered to bone over tens of thousands of years. My youth was warmed by the content thoughts of jobs done well, and lifetimes spent alongside syncretic family."

Its dark, acrid smoke roiled in slow pseudo-breaths from vents upon its back as it kept its long tail coiled about its seat at the table. In place of eyes it had four slanted vents in the bone of its helmet-like skull, and from these openings the intense purple light of unmistakeably psionic catalyzation could be seen. The creature had no mouth, yet regardless it spoke to the old Klingon it shared its table with.

Yr'th, Son of Drek lifted a claw to scratch the side of what was left of his nose. Uncharacteristically afraid to die and exiled from his ancestral holdings, the disabled Klingon spent his last days nursing mugs of bloodwine on a Romulan station; collecting stories and booze money in mostly equal measure.

Again, the creature spoke. "Now, named by your empire's scientists as SuvwI'naj, I have come to know that I am best suited for mercenary work. Bounty hunting dangerous sapients that live in similarly dangerous environs especially."

It stares at one of its foreclaws; four digits and two thumbs. It is symmetrical, and alien.

Yr'th begins to speak, but is interrupted by the creature. "I am seeking passage into space that has been titled the 'Neutral Zone'. I possess bars of gold-pressed latinum, which I will trade in exchange for information."

The Klingon growls in annoyance as he shifts in his poorly balanced seat. "Grrh, more than enough walking corpses in a place like this." He raises his mug. "I'll point you to the right Klingons, if you can sell them on the adventure, and give me fifteen of your bars..."


	2. Version 2: Devoured Alive

The air is somehow hot, thin, and muggy at the same time. These Terran slaves waste their remaining years within the extensive caverns of Dream's End; mining the valuable material the Romulins have dubbed "Nanotechne" from the petrified corpses of the SuvwI'naj. These beings were surely terrifying in their hayday - their many forms as varied as they are monstrous; once-living machines used for either defence or war. The Romulin and Klingon scientists continue to debate, as they look into ways of producing nanotechne without the lengthy extraction processes.

The Klingon Empire's war against a free galaxy is neverending, and this bordeline magical material allows for weapons, ships, and structures that grow and heal as living creatures do, but retain the resilience and longevity of machinery. These details would have fascinated Gregory "Rat" Kinsey long ago, for he had once dreamed of becoming a scientist. 

Materials science, specifically. Growing up with parents thoroughly trained in geology, engineering, and architecture helped cement that fascination. That is, until the raid on his colony killed most of his family and he was promptly sold into chattle slavery.

The tortured screech of the long outdated oxigenation system turning on for the day brings Rat back to consciousness; head throbbing in time with his pulses as he rouses from sleep, and stumbles towards the common area for food. At least, what the Romulins consider food fit for traitorous Terrans.

The dark, curly haired woman eating at the ship-bulkhead-turned-table does a double take. Spitting out her sustenance bar to yell "Rat?! Oh my god you're up!" The skin of her hands stained with oil, she quickly approaches the emaciated Rat; checking his head and neck as her calloused digits begin to slow as the miracle of what has happened to Rat dawns on her. 

"Your head was split open in the fall, the swelling didn't look like it was going to stop... you shh-ouldn't be able to walk, I set your leg myself two days ago!"

Rat groans, not registering anything being said to him "...Needle I am very, very hungry and my head feels like I had a foundation rivet thrown at it. Can I please get some food? Anything. I'll even eat the leather off that jacket you made."

The awe of Rat's recovery dies down quickly as work picks up again. Mining and hauling and digging and toiling. Needle's longtime cough slowly gets worse as the months drag on. Snippets of news from the outside are not good. Resistance cells being snuffed out one by one - the difference in technology and logistics growing too distant to fight the Empire effectively anymore. The Cardassians gave a good fight, but in the end thier species will be folded into yet another caste of battle thralls.

Eventually, the cosmic dice come up snake eyes for Rat a third time in his life.

Seething hatred pulses through Rat's extremities as Needle is "recalled" for under-performance in the last two quarters; the beat of his pulse against the metal collar.


End file.
